


Academic

by rudbeckia



Category: Silence (2016), The Revenant (2016)
Genre: Adam Driver/Domhnall Gleeson Character Combinations, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catholic Guilt, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: Professor Francisco Garupe, who always intended to become a priest but found himself well suited to academia, is given the responsibility of helping visiting Professor Andrew Henry settle in to college life.After a mutual misunderstanding based on their own respective prejudices, it turns out that they are perfect for each other.(edited and extended twitfic)
Relationships: Francisco Garupe/Andrew Henry
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	Academic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theweddingofthefoxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweddingofthefoxes/gifts).



> Andrew is trying to recreate this video on his walk with Francisco:  
> https://youtu.be/uWoiMMLIvco

Professor Francisco Garupe sits back in his chair, stares at his blank computer screen and gives thanks, as he does every day when he closes down his office in the faculty of Philosophy, Divinity and Ethics, that by the grace of God he ended up here. It had never been his ambition to become a tenured professor of philosophy. But at barely eighteen years old he had applied to this cold, foreign university to study for a degree in divinity, with the hope of joining the Priesthood after graduation. He’d shown such promise that in his final year his academic tutor floated the idea of staying on to do a masters degree, tuition fees paid by a scholarship and his living expenses covered by some tutoring work with struggling undergraduates in college. That had led to a doctorate.

Fixated on his research, Francisco made a name for himself quickly. Grant money came with invitations to conferences and symposia, and although shy of the attention it brought, he enjoyed meeting his peers and debating the nuances of texts translated over and over. But it was not what he had promised God he would do. Seventeen year old Francisco had spent hours on his knees. Praying for the chance to study. Praying for experience of the world. Praying that God would cast light upon his path. Promising to pay it back in His service. So he told himself over and over again: just this one grant and when the money runs out I will keep my promise to God. I will go home, become a priest, serve God the way I intended.

When he was invited to apply for a tenured post, he realised he’d struck the wrong bargain. God had bigger plans for him. He was now teaching those who would tread the path he had once imagined would be his own.

That thought, plus the hours he puts in at the college chaplaincy, sets his mind at ease that he’s keeping his word. In many ways, he muses with a rueful smile as he walks through grey drizzle from the modernist faculty building to his rooms in the hulking, limestone college, the life of an academic is not unlike the life of a reverend Brother. He’s unmarried and attends twice daily services at the college chapel, usually with a divinity student officiating, smiling at his own memories and wondering if the students still pull the same pranks on each other that he did. He thinks probably not.

Francisco climbs the stone staircase up to his rooms and lets himself in, intending to eat in the college refectory and then attend Compline in the chapel. He sees the pale rectangle of an envelope on the floor just inside his door and picks it up awkwardly, bending low and dropping his bag from his shoulder. Abandoning the bag and dropping his coat on top of it, he opens the envelope. It’s a note asking him, if it was not too much trouble, to lead vespers. He checks his watch. He’ll just have time.

Sighing at the unexpected change in his routine then scolding himself for being ungrateful enough to be irritated, Francisco smooths down his suit, goes back downstairs and across the quad to the side door of the chapel. He has just enough time to murmur a private prayer before stepping up to the space in front of the altar.

He closes his eyes. "O God, come to our aid."

"O God make haste to help us," comes the reply, and Francisco opens his eyes to see who the new voice belongs to.

An angel, apparently.

Francisco stares until someone coughs, then he continues with the opening prayer as if he’s been whipped. He gets through it—somehow—and does his best not to look at the tall, willowy, flame-haired man sitting, standing, kneeling in the third row.

After the short service is over, Francisco stays to greet the small congregation but the angel his not there, he has left without even a nod in his direction. Disappointed, Francisco closes the chapel doors when the small congregation has drifted off to dinner, and returns to his rooms to freshen up. He’s a little late for the evening meal and the server greets his apology with an exasperated sigh. He’s about to head over to his usual seat at the long top table but someone else is already in his place. Someone with pale skin, green eyes and red hair.

Green eyes lock with his for an instant then the beautiful face twists into a scowl and looks away. Francisco slinks into to a different seat and the server bangs a plate of something that might once have been cottage pie in front of him. He mumbles a prayer and begins to eat, but a figure blocks the light.  
“Prayers won’t save you from the food tonight, I’m afraid."

Francisco frowns at the dean’s words. "Garupe, this is Professor Andrew Henry. He’s on secondment to us for a semester. I said you might show him around."  
“Of course!" Francisco looks up. There, standing behind the Dean, is the red-haired angel.

The dean nods good evening and walks away. The red-haired angel looks furious.  
"Nice to meet you." Francisco plasters on a smile. "I’m—"  
"Professor Francisco Garupe. I know." The angel sighs deeply. "Look, you don’t need to babysit me, Garupe. I can find my way around."  
“Oh." Francisco frowns deeper, catches himself, and tries to put on a more welcoming expression. "It really is no trouble. I have no classes scheduled tomorrow. Perhaps I could—"  
"I will be busy tomorrow," Henry replies sharply. "At the School of Engineering."

Francisco keeps the smile on his face although his heart is sinking fast. That must be it, he thinks. He doesn’t think much of philosophers or religion. It’s all about what can you design, what can you build, what can you patent, what can you sell.

“I see," Francisco says. "In that case I’ll say good evening. If you change your mind, I have the first room on the right after you go up the east tower staircase."

It could have been a trick of the light, but he’s almost sure the reluctant angel flinches. Francisco finds out why the next morning when he emerges from his rooms to go across to the refectory for breakfast and meets the angel coming out of the first room on the left.

After polite good mornings, they descend the stairs together in silence. The only two seats left with clean table space in front of them are Francisco’s usual seat and the one beside it. Francisco helps himself to coffee and notices with a sense of satisfaction that Henry copies him as he uses the toaster and pours cereal.

“Tea," Henry says mournfully as he inspects the coffee machine. "I thought there would be tea."  
"There is." Francisco grabs a teabag and a mug and pours boiling water from a dispenser on the side of the coffee machine.  
“Thank you," Henry mumbles, following Francisco to the table. They sit, Henry immediately digging in to his cereal, Francisco saying the shortest prayer of thanks he had ever used.  
"You said grace," Henry observes. "Do you always do that?"  
“Yes." Francisco sips coffee. "And you’re not religious but you used to be."  
Henry raises his eyebrows. "How did you figure that out?"  
"Vespers." Francisco smiles. "You knew all the responses. But you vanished, and then you froze me out when the dean introduced us."  
Henry scoffs. "You looked at me as if the devil incarnate was sitting in the pews. I only went because the dean made me go along with him before dinner. Are you going to try to convert me?"  
Francisco pretends to think while he chews his toast. "Not today," he says. "So are you really too busy or will you let me show you around?"  
"No," Henry says with a slight smile, "I accept your kind offer."

Francisco’s smile dazzles like the Sun. "The city’s small but there’s a lot to see. With your permission, I would like to begin with the college, then the cathedral. After that we could—"  
"Professor Garupe," Henry says with a laugh. "One thing at a time."  
“Call me Francisco."  
"Call me Andrew."  
"Well, we are friends, then."  
"As long as you accept that my interest in the cathedral is mainly in its construction and not its purpose."  
"Very well. I will not make you kneel in prayer. But do not take offence if I do."

They seal their agreement with a handshake. Francisco tells Andrew to meet him in the quad in half an hour, then goes to his rooms for one last check of his emails and to collect his jacket.

College, he murmurs as he combs his thick, wavy hair and checks his teeth. Cathedral. Then lunch at that place that does the nice pastries, then a walk along the riverside into the more modern part of campus where the engineering faculty is. Back, he thinks as he puts on his coat, along the other side of the river to see the boathouses and if the weather stays fine, to watch the rowing teams train from the middle of the wooden foot bridge where the willow trees dip their fingers into the water.

He smiles at the thought of maybe suggesting that they have dinner somewhere other than college.

The tour of the buildings is short since the college is one of the more modest ones. They walk along a narrow, cobbled street to the cathedral nearby, with Andrew openly admiring the quaint feel of the old town.

"I thought you would want to tear this down,"Francisco says, "and build something new."  
Andrew stops and Francisco takes two more steps before noticing and turning to look for him. "Of course not," he says, locking eyes with Francisco. "I’m an engineer, not an idiot. I recognise beauty when I see it."  
Francisco’s stomach gives a little lurch. He laughs softly and looks away, then looks back to see Andrew still watching him, a faint smile on his lips.

Andrew catches up and they walk the rest of the way to the cathedral side by side, with Francisco pointing out features of the old buildings that he has noticed over the years: a gargoyle beside a window arch, an intricate oak leaf pattern carving above a door, a piece of humorously salacious graffiti about the dean. He’s almost sorry when they reach the cathedral and its heavy stones imply that they should be silent.

They enter. Andrew examines the dark, veined marble of the columns. Francisco points out fossils embedded in the stones and names them: ammonite, belemnite.  
"I thought you lot believed that God made the Earth in six days," Andrew murmurs, leaning in close to Francisco.  
Francisco laughs and shakes his head. "I’m a Catholic, not an idiot," he says. "I recognise scientific truth when I see it."  
Andrew suppresses a laugh and Francisco’s face crinkles around the eyes. "Have a good look around," Francisco says. "I will be waiting for you over there on my knees."

He’s halfway through the first decade of his rosary when his face flames as he realises how someone might misinterpret what he said.

Andrew is courteous and respectful. Francisco’s eyes seek him out and watches the progress of the red-haired angel around the cathedral covertly, eyebrows rising when he sees Andrew stop to genuflect as he passes in front of the cross behind the altar. Soon Andrew makes his way to Francisco’s position and he sits quietly waiting for Francisco to finish his prayers. It only takes a few minutes. Francisco turns to smile his thanks and Andrew smiles back.

They emerge, blinking, into golden sunlight and birdsong.  
"You are Catholic too, I think," Francisco says once they are clear of the people gathered at the entrance.  
“Was," Andrew replies. "I was but people like me are not welcomed."  
Francisco frowns. "What do you mean? People like you?"  
Andrew frowns back and sucks his lip for a second. "I’m gay. I got tired of hearing that I was going to go to hell."  
Francisco sighs deeply. "Some people interpret the Word of God to suit their own prejudices," he says. "I don’t believe that you’re bound for Hell because of who you love."

Francisco waits for Andrew to fall into step beside him again before adding, "any more than I am." Andrew pauses to look at Francisco’s profile. Francisco feels the scrutiny down to his bones. "Are you surprised?" Francisco asks, with a quirk of his brow. "No, don’t answer that. Look there." He points out a cafe. "Are you hungry enough for lunch?"

Andrew says he is, and they go inside. They choose a table in the corner where they can sit at with their knees brushing at right angles to each other and both observe the other patrons.  
"Hello again, professor Garupe," says the young server who hands them their menus. "The soup is your favourite, lentil, and the chickpea salad’s good too."  
Francisco accepts a menu but barely glances at it. Andrew reads every item then they both order soup and make smalltalk while they wait for it to arrive.

Andrew watches the room while Francisco closes his eyes for a few seconds of silent thanks. They eat without talking. When the server brings their bill, Andrew lays a gentle hand on Francisco’s forearm. "I’ll get this," he says, then moves his hand so that he can get his wallet out.  
Francisco can still feel the pressure of Andrew’s hand on his skin.“Thank you, that’s very kind of you." He thinks he hears a whispered voice from behind the counter hiss something like, _Is that the prof’s boyfriend?_ and he steps toward the counter to correct the mistaken student, but Andrew squeezes his arm again and they leave.

“Students will always gossip," Andrew says once they are safely outside. "It’s harmless. Unless it bothers you?"  
Francisco shrugs. He thinks it bothers him a lot less than it should that they think Andrew is his boyfriend. For a few minutes, as they pick their way down a set of stone steps to the riverside, he wonders what it would be like to have Andrew as his partner. He imagines regular lunch dates and walks, sitting together at breakfasts and dinners, attending the dean’s drinks parties and giving each other excuses to leave early. He thinks it would be nice, even for just a semester.

“You’re smiling," Andrew observes. "It is a lovely day, isn’t it? How far does the riverside path go?"  
"As far as your faculty building," Francisco replies. "And beyond, but I have never explored further."  
"Well then," Andrew says with delight, "maybe we can do some exploring together."  
Something about the way he says it makes heat creep up Francisco’s neck. "I think I would like that," he replies. "Although I expect your time will fill up quickly once the semester starts."  
“Don’t worry.” Andrew turns to catch Francisco’s gaze. "I’m sure I’ll find time for this."

They walk side by side where the path is wide enough and in single file through a patch of woodland where the path narrows to a trail of packed earth weaving between the chestnuts and beeches. Occasionally they bump arms and shoulders then apologise and laugh. Francisco feels like he has lost two decades from his age and it makes him almost giddy, so he’s sorry when they reach the modern campus and there is space to separate them.

The engineering faculty looms, a blocky glass-fronted structure that promises function over form. "I don’t need to go in," Andrew says. "I have a formal welcome on Monday."  
"Then we can walk back along the river and watch the rowing, if you like," Garupe replies. "Or would you rather explore?"  
Andrew looks at Francisco with a slight frown. "Is that okay with you?"  
"You are my guest today. This way."

Francisco leads Andrew back to the riverbank and turns away from town, away from campus. The path gets rougher and they can’t walk side by side. Francisco pauses to let Andrew pass him.  
"If you go ahead you’ll get a better view than my back," he explains.  
"Oh I don’t know about that," Andrew replies with a smile, but he passes Francisco, holding his arm briefly to steady himself. "The view was just fine."  
Francisco only realises that Andrew was flirting when he checks himself for staring at the way Andrew’s jeans hug his arse. Even so, he refuses to believe it. They are not teenagers, he tells himself. And Andrew must surely prefer a companion who is livelier, brighter, less prone to feelings of guilt. Still, it’s a pleasant daydream to think of walking through the trees, holding hands if it’s quiet, stopping to kiss under the umbrella of a weeping willow.

It’s too much, though. "Andrew, I—"  
"Oh look at that bridge!"

Andrew’s attention is up ahead and he sets off faster. Francisco catches up when Andrew is in the middle of a rickety construction of rope and wood. He grips the hand rails and stands facing Andrew.  
"I wonder if this’ll work," Andrew says gleefully. "Always wanted to try it." Andrew holds on tight too, sinks down then jumps up. The bridge warps as he lands, and he jumps again. "Jump when I do," he commands Francisco. "We can make a wave on the bridge—"

Francisco loses his grip and lurches into Andrew. It’s all he can do not to fall over the side into the river. Andrew holds him tightly around the waist and he has a firm grip around Andrew’s shoulders.  
"I’m sorry," Francisco says, eyes closed.  
"No, I am," Andrew replies. "I got a little carried away. It was childish. Are you okay?"  
“Yes." Francisco risks opening his eyes. "I’d like to be on solid ground, please."

Andrew nods and leads Francisco by the hand to the other bank of the river. He does not let go when they get there, and Francisco doesn’t shake him off. They reach a fallen trunk carved to make a seat and they sit together, watching the water flow by.

"You probably think I’m an idiot to get scared by that," Francisco says quietly.  
"I don’t think that at all," Andrew replies. "You probably think I’m an infant for playing with the bridge."  
“Not at all," Francisco says, then he laughs. "All right, a bit. But I don’t mind."

They sit in silence for another couple of minutes, then Francisco says, "I like spending time with you." He turns to look at Andrew, to gauge his reaction and backtrack in an instant but Andrew is smiling. As Francisco is pondering whether he is allowed this, whether he can make a more obvious statement, ask Andrew to have dinner out with him this evening and maybe a nightcap in his rooms, Andrew leans in and kisses him once, gently.  
"If you’re not interested," Andrew says, "just tell me plain."

In response, Francisco quells the internal voice—Andrew doesn’t mean it, Andrew’s faking so he can laugh at you, Andrew’s changing his mind right now—and returns the kiss. It’s warm and comforting and exciting and new all at the same time and Francisco’s reeling from it when his brain catches up. He pulls back. "Not here."  
"Okay," Andrew says, voice a breath against Francisco’s cheek. "Your place or mine?"  
Francisco’s shocked into laughter. Andrew giggles along too. "I’m sorry," Andrew says after a minute. "Too fast?"  
“Just let me buy you dinner," Francisco replies. "And we can take it from there."

“Have you been alone for a while?" Andrew says as they stand up and brush bark-dust from their backsides.  
Francisco considers how to answer. _Yes, forever?_ Sad. _Oh, for a while?_ Vague. _One is never alone with God by one’s side?_ Creepy.

For want of a better answer, Francisco opts for truth. "I have not, um, felt the need to, ah, well the opportunity rarely arises and, uh—"

Andrew stands back with his hands on Francisco’s shoulders. "Are you telling me that you have lived this long... unappreciated?"  
Francisco shrugs. "People who share my beliefs are often constrained by them. I’ve been close to— to friends before, but when you’re told over and over that it’s acceptable to love other men only as long as you don’t indulge the physical side of that love, it sets a limit."

Francisco waits to see how badly Andrew will react.  
"Go on," Andrew says. "How far is too far? Should we not fuck? Not kiss? Not touch?”  
“I have been affectionate with others before, but—" Francisco shrugs and sighs deeply.  
“I get it," Andrew says. "I suppose. You have stuff to work through? Or maybe it’s just part of who you are."  
"Yes," Francisco says with a forced laugh. "Perhaps it’s both."  
"Dinner, then?" Andrew says with a smile. "You know somewhere good?"  
With a sigh, Francisco asks, "are you still interested? In... me? In whatever this might be?"

Andrew gives Francisco an incredulous look. "Yes," he says, then his face softens and he takes Francisco’s hand and leads him under the green and gold curtain of a willow overhanging the river. The illusion of privacy, helped by the quiet rustling of the leaves, helps Francisco to relax. Andrew strokes the scant, soft beard on his cheeks and chin then kisses him again. “Yes, Francisco, I am _interested_ in this. In you.”

They walk back into town along the riverbank but there’s no rowing to watch lazily from the footbridge. Andrew doesn’t seem to want conversation and it gives Francisco space to think. He has advised students, of course, for some reason he seems to be known as a safe confidant the various troubles of young men finding independence in a world that offers only conditional acceptance. He thinks of the advice he has given to others over the years and realises that he has applied exactly none of that sage wisdom to himself.

 _Well, Garupe._ His internal voice turns paternalistically stern. _If you study the words spoken by Christ himself and give them greater weight than the words written by people interpreting those words under the feeble light of their own prejudices, you will see that Christ instructs us to love, but nowhere does He tell us to limit that love. How can loving someone be sinful?_

Thoughts whirl around in his head until he feels a little dizzy.

Soon they are back at the college and Francisco doesn’t want to let Andrew out of his sight. Andrew stops at the top of the stairs. He should go left and Francisco should go right. "Thank you for the guided tour. When do you want to meet for dinner?"  
Francisco checks that nobody is watching, pulls Andrew into a kiss that makes him snigger, then walks him to his door. Andrew fumbles his keys and turns, with the key still jutting out of the keyhole. "I’m not suggesting anything," he says. "But would you like to come in?"  
"Yes," Francisco replies. "I would."

Inside the rooms are the mirror image of Francisco’s own, except instead of the artfully arranged furniture and books in rank order on the bookcase, there are boxes stacked by the empty shelves and the sofa and table, chairs stacked, are pushed back against the wall making the living area look bare. “Sorry it’s like this,” Andrew says, waving Francisco towards the sofa. “My things arrived before I did and I’ve not unpacked. I’m still living out of the suitcase I carried on the flight.”

“Then I could help you unpack,” Francisco offers. “If you want help, that is.”  
Andrew nods. “Won’t take long. You could do the books while I do my clothes.”  
“Any particular order?” Francisco says, pulling the top box open. “Mine are chronological so if I want to read something, I have to remember when it was written.”  
“By colour, please, red to violet, dark to light.” Francisco waits for a laugh that doesn’t come. He frowns at Andrew. “It works for me. If I want to refer to Krennic’s _Principles of Kyber Energy Extraction_ I have to picture it in my head. It’s dark red.”

Andrew goes into the bedroom and Francisco shelves the three boxes of books as best he can, a task aided by the fact that Andrew clearly packed them in order. He wonders if Andrew’s clothing is also packed in neatly in colour order, but doesn’t venture uninvited into the bedroom. The living space has an austere, impersonal feel only slightly relieved by the colour on the bookshelves. Francisco frowns as his eyes rove around the room.  
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he calls through to Andrew. “I’m going to get something from my rooms.”

When he returns with a brightly coloured throw—his bedspread—to drape the sofa, Andrew’s face lights up.  
“Thank you!” he chirps. “These rooms are so bland.”  
“I have lived in mine for long enough that it feels like home,” Francisco says. “Perhaps you would like to look and maybe it will give you some ideas?”  
Andrew nods, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “After dinner? I bet seeing your place will give me all kinds of ideas.”  
Francisco’s cheeks warm. He’s on the point of stumbling over an apology that maybe Andrew has taken the wrong meaning, when Andrew lets out a laugh.  
“I’m kidding, Francisco. I promise, if you invite me into your lair I will be a perfect gentleman.”

Francisco can’t quite tell whether he feels relieved or disappointed. “I’ll go freshen up,” he says, “then we can go out for dinner. Do you like Italian?” Andrew says he does, so soon they are walking side by side past the cobbled market square, across the river and uphill to a warmly welcoming restaurant that looks like the owner asked people who had never seen Venice to describe it. Although it is Friday, they have arrived early so they are quickly seated opposite each other with padded vinyl menus, a basket of ciabatta with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and glasses of water. The owner comes over to welcome Francisco by name and asks to be introduced _to your handsome man-friend_. Francisco coughs on his water and blushes beet-red. Andrew laughs and introduces himself as a ‘visiting colleague from the US’, shakes hands with the owner and asks for a wine list.

“Do you drink wine?” Andrew asks, peering over the menu.  
“The Gavi is okay, and the Chianti.”  
“Well,” Andrew hands over the wine list. “You know better so you choose. Do you know the menu too? Should I put myself in your hands?”  
Francisco laughs. “Maybe later,” he says, leaning in and winking. “This is a public place.”

It’s Andrew’s turn to cough and laugh, pink-cheeked, at Francisco’s reply. Francisco asks what the specials are then orders two different dishes and a bottle of Barolo. The owner brings the wine and grins as he pours a splash for Francisco to taste, then retreats to lavish hospitality on other diners. Andrew tears a piece of bread and dips it in the dish of oil at the same time as Francisco and their fingers brush. Francisco feels as if the touch sets off a signal that travels all the way to his chest and makes his heart beat a little faster. He feels like— He’s not sure what this feels like. He remembers fooling around with someone at a party when he was an undergraduate, because it was what something thought he should experience, but Andrew is different. It’s not just that they are older, there’s something about Andrew that gives Francisco an extra edge of nervous energy.

“You’re vibrating,” Andrew observes, trapping Francisco’s calves between his own and making him suddenly aware that his knee has been bouncing for the past few minutes.  
“Sorry.” Francisco closes his eyes for a second and forces himself to sit still. “Habit.”  
Andrew looks around. There are two women at a table by the window and he just catches one lean over to kiss the other, their clasped hands wearing matching rings. He smiles and looks at Francisco again. “Give me your hands.”

Francisco frowns, but places both hands, palm up, on the table. Andrew lays his hands on top. “I’m a little nervous,” he says. “Feels like a first date.”  
“I suppose it is,” Francisco replies with a little laugh. “What do people do on first dates? It has been a long time since... well. I have never really been on one.”  
“I can tell you.” Andrew releases one hand to sip his wine. “People on a first date have a nice meal, nice wine, talk shit, walk each other home and ask politely and with no expectation if the other would like to come in for... I don’t know what the correct euphemism is these days.”  
“I remember someone once asked me if they could come up to my place for coffee one evening and they seemed surprised when I put the espresso maker on the stove and offered them a Jaffa Cake.”  
Andrew puts his hand over his mouth but fails to stifle his laughter. Francisco joins in and the tension blows away.

Food arrives and since neither can decide which meal they would prefer, they share.  
“Would you like to see the dessert menu, Professor Garupe?” asks their server.  
Francisco nods and accepts the printed, laminated card that he knows lists gelato, tiramisu and sickly sweet liqueurs.  
Andrew leans in when the server has gone. “Do you know all the wait staff in this town?”  
Francisco laughs and shakes his head. “Only the ones I have taught.”  
“I don’t think I want dessert.” Andrew leans back. Francisco asks for the bill, and they leave.

On the stroll back down to the river, Francisco wonders if he should take Andrew’s hand but he dismisses the idea in case Andrew thinks it’s silly, and he puts his hands in his pockets. Andrew slips a hand through Francisco’s arm as they walk across the bridge. Francisco takes his hand out of his pocket, Andrew slides his hand down the inside of Francisco’s forearm to meet it, and their fingers interlace comfortably. Francisco smiles, and when he glances at Andrew’s profile, Andrew is smiling too.

Soon they are at the college gate. Francisco releases Andrew’s hand before they walk across the quad to the east staircase. He checks his watch. In the excitement of asking Andrew to dinner, he forgot about Vespers and now he will have just missed the start of Compline in the chapel. At the top of the stairs, Andrew catches Francisco around the waist and kisses him.  
“Would you like to come in,” Francisco says between touches of their lips, “to see how I have arranged my rooms?” He thinks of the macarons a grateful student gave him for an extra tutorial on ethics. “You could stay for coffee and dessert.”  
Andrew smirks. “Is that the current euphemism, then?”  
Francisco laughs. “Come in.”

Francisco’s rooms are decorated with throws and cushions in rich colours to hide the drab chairs and sofa, and framed prints cover the walls. There are candles in the disused fireplace and string lights draped on a large houseplant on the windowsill. “Look around if you like,” Francisco says, turning on the string lights then slotting his phone into a dock on one of his speakers and choosing some music. He opts for Satie and sighs as the first notes soften the air. “It’s just like yours.”  
“It’s far nicer,” Andrew says, sinking onto the sofa. “Relaxing.”  
Francisco smiles, stooping to light the candles. “Did you want coffee?”  
“I hate coffee.”  
“That’s just as well,” Francisco admits, turning off the main light and perching on the sofa beside Andrew. “I don’t have any.”

With a laugh, Andrew leans across, slides his fingers through Francisco’s thick waves and kisses him. They fall sideways to slouch against the back of the sofa, hands caressing each other’s hair, eyes closed, piano music covering the occasional scuff of feet on the stairs outside. Time passes ignored as hands drift lower, stroking each other’s shoulders and chests and backs, then the music changes and Francisco breaks off kissing to frown at the speakers.  
“Ah, leave it,” Andrew murmurs. “Don’t get up.”

Francisco feels hazy, on the verge of being drunk although he knows he can’t be. He gives in to gentle pressure on his shoulders and reclines on the sofa with Andrew half on top of him. Andrew smells good, a very human blend of something slightly spicy and woody in his aftershave or maybe his shampoo mingled with the sharp tang of clean perspiration.

“Wait,” Francisco says. “My back—”  
Andrew huffs and sits up, watches as Francisco lurches across the room to change the music to something more gentle then comes back and stretches. He can almost touch the ceiling. Andrew’s eyes are captured by a flash of pale skin where Francisco’s shirt rides up above the waist of his trousers and he reaches out to trail a fingertip across it. Francisco yelps and jumps back a step, then giggles.

“Oh, ticklish?” Andrew grins impishly and gets up too, reaching for Francisco, anticipating a short chase and a pleasant grapple. But Francisco retaliates, grabbing Andrew’s wrists and holding them behind his hips. This movement brings them close and it only takes a slight pull of his arms to bump Francisco’s hips with his own.  
“Sorry,” Francisco mutters and releases Andrew’s wrists.  
Quick as a flash, Andrew holds Francisco’s hips and keeps their bodies pressed lightly against each other. He sucks his lip and smiles. “Don’t apologise, I was having fun.”

Again, they kiss, softly at first as though starting over, and as their kisses become deeper Francisco feels the insistent tingle of desire low in his groin. Andrew slides his hands up under Francisco’s shirt, draws slow circles on his back with flat palms then slides one hand around to caress Francisco’s chest. The warm tingle is getting stronger, harder to ignore. Francisco puts his hands on the back of Andrew’s waist, holds them more tightly together and closes his eyes.

 _Am I losing control?_ he wonders. _Is this so very wrong? Where is the fine line between just far enough and too far?_ Francisco opens his eyes to find Andrew looking at him, lips parted, eyes focused on his with pupils black and fat reflecting the candlelight, only a thin ring of grey-green showing. It’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. _Fuck,_ he thinks, arousal flaring, hands finding the hem of Andrew’s shirt and pushing it up. _I am lost._

Andrew wriggles out of his shirt then pulls at the buttons of Francisco’s until they pop open one by one. He slides the cotton fabric off Francisco’s shoulders and eases it down his arms until gravity claims it. He drops a kiss onto the point of Francisco’s shoulder and leaves a trail of gentle nips along the skin leading to the curve of Francisco’s neck. Aching for touch now, Francisco angles his head to expose the side his throat and hums quietly when Andrew mouths his way up to his ear and scrapes the lobe and shell with his teeth.

“You like this?” Andrew murmurs into his ear, and Francisco’s skin pricks up at the sensation. “Oh you do.” Andrew draws the point of his tongue around the curve of Francisco’s ear and Francisco feels like he might burst. He holds Andrew tightly against him then curses gently and slides his hands down to cup Andrew’s ass, kneading his buttocks through his jeans. Andrew gives Francisco’s earlobe one sharp nip and smiles through a kiss. When he speaks, his breath is cool on Francisco’s cheek. “What do you feel like doing, Francisco?”

Francisco bends his knees, holds on tightly around Andrew’s thighs and lifts him up. Andrew giggles but doesn’t fight to be dropped, and Francisco carries him to the bedroom and tips him off onto the plain white sheets where his bedspread used to be. Francisco kneels over Andrew and unfastens the buttons of Andrew’s jeans while Andrew tackles Francisco’s belt. Francisco stands to peel Andrew’s jeans off inside out, only just remembering to pull his shoes off, while his own trousers sag around his knees. He drops the jeans on the floor and kicks his way out of his shoes and his trousers, then kneels on the bed.

The only light in the room is the faint glow of the living room coming from the doorway. Francisco watches how the light makes pale highlights and deep shadows of Andrew’s features. “You’re beautiful,” Francisco says. “I could stare at you for hours.”  
“I’ve heard I look extra handsome in the dark,” Andrew quips and they both laugh.  
“No, I mean it.” Francisco flops over beside Andrew, who is on his back, and traces his profile with a forefinger. “When I saw you last night at Vespers I had to force myself not to look at you in case I forgot what I was supposed to be saying.”  
“I thought from the way you avoided looking at me you could somehow tell that I shouldn’t be there.”  
Francisco’s fingertip traces the outline of Andrew’s lips and Andrew captures it briefly between his teeth. Francisco pulls his hand away and kisses Andrew instead, trailing the finger down Andrew’s sternum, past his navel and into the sparse trail of gold hair below.  
“I hadn’t planned on meeting an angel.”

Andrew laughs softly, turns onto his side and kisses Francisco. He hooks one foot behind Francisco’s calves and rolls back, pulling Francisco on top. Francisco can’t help himself, he grinds against Andrew and groans quietly. Andrew slides both hands down Francisco’s back and under the elastic of his shorts to stroke his ass, then holds him in place while he eases his own thighs apart so that Francisco lies between them. He thrusts up carefully, once, and bites his lip. Francisco rolls his hips, grinding harder, and Andrew lets out a little gasp.  
“Yes, do that again.”

Francisco shifts a little higher so that he can kiss Andrew while they rub against each other. Andrew pushes the back of the waistband of Francisco’s shorts down. Francisco raises his hips and waits while Andrew eases the front down past his erect cock, then holds still while Andrew pushes his own shorts to mid thigh. This time when he settles his weight on Andrew, Andrew clasps one hand around both of their cocks.

“Slowly, not too hard,” Andrew says. Francisco thrusts gently into Andrew’s hand, feeling the hard length of Andrew’s cock against his own, wondering if Andrew is finding this as pleasurable as he is. Andrew lets out a shuddering moan and releases the pressure.  
Francisco freezes. “Am I doing this wrong?” he whispers.  
“You’re dong great. Do you have lube? This feels wonderful with lube.”  
Francisco feels the heat of shame that he is unprepared. “No,” he says. “Sorry.”  
Andrew pushes his hands into Francisco’s hair and kisses him. “It’s okay. This is nice. It’ll just take longer, and that’s not a bad thing.”

Francisco rolls onto his side when Andrew taps his shoulder and pushes. Andrew clasps Francisco’s cock, and when Andrew breathes out _touch me too_ Francisco mirrors Andrew’s grip. Andrew sets the pace and Francisco follows, the heat and need in his groin growing and growing until he has to release his grip on Andrew, throw his head back and give in to the surging waves of pleasure that light up his brain.

When he starts to come back down, he finds Andrew smiling at him. “Was that okay for you?”  
All Francisco can offer in reply is a dopey grin. He goes to resume stroking Andrew’s cock, but Andrew takes his hand and kisses his fingers. Francisco thinks he might have done something wrong, or that the lack of lube is a bigger problem for Andrew than it is for himself.

“I have an idea,” Francisco says, then he rolls Andrew onto his back, fixes his shorts, and gets up to straddle Andrew’s knees.  
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” Andrew says, eyes glinting in the dark.  
“I do want to.”

Francisco holds the base of Andrew’s cock, leans down and closes his lips around it.  
 _”Oh sweet Jesus fuck! SORRY! I’m sorry.”_

Francisco resists the urge to laugh. He’s never done this before, but he’s pretty sure he can figure it out. Certainly from the noises Andrew is making, he seems to be doing something right. Andrew tries to thrust up but Francisco pins him to the bed with one arm on his hip. He’s drooling as his head moves an his lips slide up and down Andrew’s shaft. He flicks his tongue over the head of Andrew’s cock a few times. Andrew garbles something, grips Francisco by the hair and tugs. Not understanding the warning, Francisco feels Andrew’s cock twitch in his mouth and warm, salty come spurts onto his tongue. He really tries not to gag, but Francisco can’t swallow. He clamps his hand over his mouth and bolts for the bathroom.

When he comes back, mouth rinsed and teeth brushed, Andrew has pulled his shorts back up and is sitting on the edge of the bed.  
“I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you, but—”  
“It’s okay.” Francisco offers Andrew both hands and pulls him to his feet. “I’ll know what to look out for next time.”  
“Next time?” Andrew says, a smile lifting the worry from his face. “You’re not put off?”  
“No.” Francisco picks up Andrew’s jeans and turns them the right way out again. A sudden thought fills him with dread. “Unless,” he says, holding the garment out, “this was just a one time thing for you.”  
“No!” Andrew frowns. “I’m only here for a semester but I would like to spend as much of it with you as I can. Come closer.”

Francisco complies, and Andrew wraps him in a tight hug. “You gave me my jeans back. Are you throwing me out?”  
“You can go to your rooms if you want, but I would be happy for you to stay.” Francisco relaxes as Andrew strokes his back and kisses his shoulder. “We could watch a movie or just sit and talk.”  
“I’d like that.”

Francisco smiles and returns Andrew’s hug. He finds a spare pair of sweatpants for Andrew and they settle on the sofa in the living room. Francisco puts on some music and they talk until they are both nodding off. “I should go.” Andrew yawns. “Let you sleep.”  
“Sleep here.” Francisco’s mouth has issued the invitation before his brain catches up. “I mean, just sleep.”  
“Mmm and wake up with backache from your lumpy sofa?”  
Francisco laughs. “That is not what I had in mind. My bed is big enough, I think.”  
“Thank you,” Andrew says with a smile. “But I won’t impose any longer. When will I see you? Tomorrow?”  
“Yes. I have Matins at six-thirty, then breakfast is at eight on weekends.”  
“Then I will see you at breakfast.”

Andrew gets up and gathers his things. Francisco walks him to the door and kisses him goodnight, then listens until he hears Andrew’s door open and close. He sighs, blows out the candles and goes to his tiny kitchenette for a glass of water, smiling at the memory of the evening. Just as he’s ready to go to bed, someone bangs on his door. He opens it, wondering if the warden has seen suspicious activity and has come to investigate, but he’s not an errant teenager away from home for the first time.

“Hi.” Andrew holds out the borrowed bedspread. “Turns out my place is depressing as fuck. Can I sleep with you?”  
Francisco grins and holds the door wide for Andrew. “Does this mean you’ll come to Matins with me?”  
“Do I have to?”  
“No.”

In the morning, Francisco wakes and slips out of bed, trying to be as silent as possible. He dresses quickly, in darkness, in yesterday’s clothes, slips on his shoes and leaves the rooms as quietly as he can before hurrying across the quad to the chapel. Matins is usually poorly attended, especially on a Saturday, and today is no different. Once the short service is over, the dean walks over with a broad smile on his wrinkled face.

“So you have seen to it that our distinguished visitor has settled in?”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“Good. Well, pass on my regards in case he does not make it as far as breakfast this morning.”  
Francisco frowns and nods. “I will. When I see him.”

He doesn’t understand the dean’s strange request until he is safely back in his rooms.  
“Ah! There it is,” Andrew says, half dressed, pointing at Francisco. “I couldn’t find my shirt.”


End file.
